


Richie Tozier: Monologue with Psychiatrist

by cathedraltunes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Trauma! the One-Man Show, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedraltunes/pseuds/cathedraltunes
Summary: EXCLUSIVE RICHIE TOZIER PERFORMANCE, ONE APPOINTMENT ONLY: Richie Tozier breaks down life, love, and his professional insecurities with Dr De Luca, psychiatrist to the stars.**Recommended by Beverly Marsh.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 19
Kudos: 243





	Richie Tozier: Monologue with Psychiatrist

Hey, uh, yeah. Hi. I’m Richie, uh, Rich. Tozier. I mean, you probably already knew my name from the receptionist. Do we shake hands? I’ve never done this before. Okay, yeah, cool. Hi! Dr De Luca! Hi!

Yeah, I, uh, got your name from one of my, geez, this sounds so kiddish, from one of my friends, Beverly? She’s got red hair and she’s like, nipple height… Yeah, you know her! Nipple height was kind of a weird thing to say. 

Oh, I’m not nervous. I’m just always this charming. And sweaty. It’s part of the whole, the package deal. The Rich Tozier experience. Sorry. I know it’s off-putting, the stage persona thing. Just, yeah. Not kidding, new to this whole thing. Um, long time listener, first time caller. Really admire what you guys are doing in the… psychiatric… biz.

Uh, yeah, I’m comfortable. Yeah. It’s cool. It’s a nice chair, yeah. It’d be nice to have one for the apartment. Um, Eddie wouldn’t like this color though, he’d want something, Jesus, something in black or white or some kind of boring neutral. This place, I like this place. The colors are nice. A-a-and I sound like a moron.

Yeah, um, and I’m sorry, I realize I say that a lot, just yeah yeah um um, you wouldn’t believe it but I’m a public speaker, professionally. People pay me money to stand up in front of them and say stupid shit. But I guess I’m here because I have some anxiety problems. That’s not me asking for pills, I’m not, like, scamming for Ritalin or whatever, it’s just that Eddie thinks that I should see somebody and uh. Well. I think I should see somebody. 

The public speaking thing, so, okay, I’m a comedian. And that is the douchiest thing to say. You have to deal with real shit. Like everything Bev went through and no, no, I know, you can’t talk about that, if you break patient confidentiality then they have to put you down and they’ll probably put me down too. Just, like, snipers in the windows. That wasn’t funny. Gun violence is real. 

Ugh. God. Can I start over. 

So a couple years ago I had a breakdown on stage. Just a total, MIB mindwipe breakdown. I got up there and I couldn’t even remember my own name. And, uh, I don’t want to talk about why that happened. I already know why it happened. And it sucks but whatever, I’m dealing with it. And after a few months they were like, they being my agent and, uh, my management team, they were like hey, dickhead, do we have to cancel the rest of this tour? With like, the very real threat of having to refund all these sold-out shows at these big, old theatres. I swear to Christ I’m not bragging. That was just my life. I told really shitty jokes to make other white dudes laugh and there’s a lot of shitty white dudes in the country and I’m not counting myself out of that demographic. 

And I didn’t want to lose my job so I said yeah, I’ll fly in to Salt Lake, get the edgier Mormons turned up, and I went on that stage and I, I did my job. I did my job. I got up there and I talked about my girlfriend’s fake tits and I did this, uh, this… racist bit that was like. Man. I don’t need to tell you about this. You can just youtube it if you really want to hate me. And there’s three separate, crazy homophobic bits in that set, and the whole time I’m up there hamming it like Good Ol’ Rich Tozier of Alpha Kappa Gamma Quadrant I’m thinking about how, uh. How much I hate it. 

The job. Yeah. The job, but also me. Because I let these other guys write the material but I was the one going hey, yeah, you know what really kills, that bullshit about slip’n’slide pussies. Yeah, yeah, I love that Apu from the Simpsons crap! I can’t wait to say all this hateful shit!

And uh. Fuck. Sorry. I don’t mean to be a dick. Not like that miraculously absolves me of dickhood. 

No, I, I’m good. Yeah. Thanks though. Um. But yeah, leave the tissues out. I’m gonna be real embarrassing, sorry. Shit. Nobody wants to see a muppet cry, right?

Um. So after the show I called my manager and I told him I didn’t think I could do it anymore and he reminded me of how many tickets we’d sold, and all these great, historic venues that were letting me show, and he gave me that, that honestly really good speech he’s got about the fans and how we do it all for the fans, Rich. And I did the rest of the tour. And, uh.

You know, the last one, Eddie came to that one. Eddie, he’s my, uh, he’s my roommate. But like, we grew up in the same crappy town in Maine. He had a really bad accident a couple years ago, after that show I bombed, um, we were at this class reunion. So we spent a lot of time together catching up after his surgeries and he was going through this whole crisis, uh, getting a divorce and quitting his job and, just, there was a lot of shit going on. And uh, he was my best friend when we were kids. Like, all the way through high school. He used to steal my shirts to wear. Right? Like a magpie! But with these heinous tie-dye prints. Oh, my god, I got so into tie-dye in the tenth grade. 

Yeah, right, yeah. So Eddie came to the last show. That was the one in Chicago, the make-up show. And he got a seat in the front, I don’t know how he fucking did it, he probably threatened to have his mafia buddies shake the box office down. He’s not actually involved with the mafia. He’s not a mobster, probably. I mean, if you saw him, you’d think this guy is definitely in with the godfather, but he’s, uh, he’s Polish, actually. Is there a Polish mob? Holy shit, there is? Oh, my god, Eddie’s totally in the Polish mafia. He’s not but like, I am absolutely going to torment him with this. What were they called? The Kielbasa Posse? Are you serious? You’re not shitting me? Oh, my _god_ , he’s going to hate this. This is incredible. Thank you. 

Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I keep getting… Yeah.

Okay. Uh, well, the stage lights are so bright you can’t see shit in the audience most of the time, it doesn’t matter what you wear, you come in wearing Big Bird like a fucking lion skin, all I see is shadow people behind the lights. But there was something fucked up with the lights, I guess, and I’m out there just going through all the motions, you know, shouting out these shitty slogans that assholes wear on t-shirts and trucker hats, this garbage merch we sell out in the lobby during every show. And there’s this bit I have to do where I talk about this time some guy stood next to me at the urinals and I’m all ‘oh, no, what if our dicks touch, what if he gets his dick all over my dick, they’ll never let me pump a pussy again’ and I hate it but I’m like, whatever, I just have to get through this, and, uh, I look at the audience thinking I’m going to just see a bunch of drunk college bros laughing and instead there’s Eddie. Just. Right there. Like, as close to me on the stage as I am to you, right now.

And Eddie’s not laughing. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, and I’m up there still garbling my way through this Rush Limbaugh bullshit and I’m thinking about how his back and his shoulders are going to hurt, because of that accident, and he doesn’t look pissed even though I swear, Eddie is always pissed, he should really be here and not me, his blood pressure could lift a car off its wheels and that’s not a joke. 

But uh, Eddie, he just looked disappointed. And like he was sorry he’d come. And I told him he wouldn’t like any of the shit I was doing on stage and he thought he knew what it was like because he’d watched some of my late night guest slots but that stuff’s always the tamest stuff, that’s me bitching about how hard it is to undo a bra. Stupid crap like that. 

And, and, uh, and Eddie came anyway. And the lights were shit but I still couldn’t see his eyes, and it’s his eyes, that’s where you know what Eddie’s really feeling is in his eyes. He’s got these huge Bambi eyes and these black eyelashes everywhere like he forgot you’re supposed to lose those when you hit thirty-five. 

And, yeah, this is just, this is bullshit. Uh, just everything I’ve told you, it’s all bullshit. Eddie’s not my roommate, he’s my boyfriend. He moved in with me during that tour, not that I was ever at the flat anyway. We got this place together in Staten Island because his wife was in New York City and it just made the divorce easier. 

So he came to my show and there I was up on stage pretending I’m not who I am, like I’m Rich Tozier and not Richie, not uh, not that kid Trashmouth Eddie used to boss around everywhere. Like I’m not gay. And I saw Eddie with his arms folded and his legs uncrossed, and he was in the front row. He’d bought a ticket for the front row off some scalper or some guy who couldn’t make the make-up show. He probably paid some obscene amount of mafia money to get it. And we weren’t, uh, we weren’t together then. We weren’t dating. Or, um, fucking.

Jesus, I hope this is okay. Beverly said you were cool. 

Yeah? Yeah. Okay. Cool. Yeah.

Um. So I blanked out again, but it only lasted for a couple seconds that time. People probably thought I was trying to build comic tension. But uh, what was really happening was Trashmouth Tozier was staking Rich Tozier in the heart, and, uh, then I opened my mouth and I said, “Actually, fuck all of that. Sorry you paid for that hour of bullshit. ‘Cause I’m gay, and I’m sorry to women, and to black people, and to you,” and I was apologizing to Eddie but the bloggers were like wow, Richie apologized to his entire audience, also he’s on drugs? When I kicked the coke in 2012 and nobody cared about that back then anyway.

God! I don’t even want the tissues. I’m just, I’m such a shitty person. Do you get it? Like, boo hoo, poor closeted Richie, but I made it so much worse for so many other people because I was so fucking _scared_. And Eddie, he almost died, I was holding him and he was dying, he was dying in my arms after—after the accident, and the only reason he was dying is because he pushed me out of the way of the. The construction beam. Because he’s so brave. You don’t get it. He’s the bravest person I know. Him and Beverly. 

And like, then he divorced his wife, and it was just, they had a really toxic relationship. It was bad. She was just controlling, like she had to smother him to love him, and Eddie wasn’t, he can be hard, you know? His mom did that to him. Like, the more someone tries to swaddle him, the further away he pulls. You should see him when he’s actually sick. He gets so pissed at me if I try and be actually nice to him. I have to make fun of him and lick the dirty thermometer in front of him and pretend to sneeze in the soup so he’ll let me take care of him. 

But you get it, right? How brave that was? To look at how unhappy his wife made him and to also see that he wasn’t a good husband to her and to take the responsibility for it. And, uh, he didn’t do it for me. He did it for Eddie. I just happened to be there and, uh, love him.

I love him. I do. I love Eddie. Do you remember that movie Clueless? The one based off of, um, shit, what’s that Jane Austen book? Yeah, Emma! Okay, okay. So, I’m butt-crazy in love with Eddie.

And I think maybe I thought if I just told everybody hey! I’m gay! I love sucking cock! I love gay monogamy! then boom, I’d just be over it all. No more closet, no more freaking out, I’m here I’m queer. Now everybody knows. 

But, uh. I’m still scared. I’m scared that. I don’t know. I haven’t really done any big shows since that last one. My agent’s still pretty pissed off at me. We were talking about a Netflix special and that fell through. That one’s probably on the breakdown. The management team’s got these ideas on how to spin it, like, remake my image as this queer icon, but uh, I’m not, I’m not that. 

But if I’m not on stage then I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had a real job, just stand-up. And like, I joke about it with Eddie, he’s a risk analyst for these huge international conglomerates, I joke that he’s my sugar daddy and I’m, this is way more than you wanted to hear, but I joke that I’m his sugar bunny. He makes like $300,000 a year! It’s morally reprehensible! He invests! He has a portfolio! He has _bonds_! I don’t even know what the fuck bonds are and he explains them to me every week like I’m not just hearing the teacher from Peanuts going waaah-wah-wah in my ear. He gets, like, horny when he does investment spreadsheets. Okay, yeah, that was definitely too much. 

But I can’t just roll around the flat in, I don’t know, a lacy nightie and those slippers with the pom poms on the toes. 

So. I’ve been writing. Um, just ideas right now. Like, drafts for sets, and then sometimes they wind up essays. And I don’t know how good any of them are because I’m trying to be funny but they keep coming out all earnest and uh, all the comedy I did before was mean as hell. I was just punching down 24/7. And do people find earnest jokes funny? Is me talking about how Eddie complains about numbers in his sleep funny? Can I tell jokes about Ben’s big shoulders and his fucking murder maps without people wondering if they’re listening to some c-tier crime podcast? 

And I’m writing and I’m scared that I’ll stop writing, that I’ll just… stop. I let a writing team do everything for me for three years. All I did was encourage the worst shit, ask them to write worse crap. I mean, do I even know how to write sets anymore? Do I know how to write anything? I was Trashmouth Tozier and then I was Rich Tozier and I guess now I’m just Richie but like, who the fuck is Richie? 

Who do I think Richie is? Man. Man. I don’t know. 

Yeah. I can try. Yeah, I’ll, uh, guess. Um. Is it okay if I talk about myself like I’m not myself? Like I’m somebody else. Yeah? That’s not too crazy? Ha, I bet it. Sure.

Uh. So, Richie.

Richie’s just. This guy. Um, he’s forty-three and his lower back just feels like shit every single day. Eddie makes me use this body pillow, like, I’m supposed to put it between my knees and it helps with my back while I’m sleeping? But I always wind up kicking it off the bed and rolling over on top of Eddie. So his back’s shit too. 

Uh, Richie. Richie, Richie. Well, he’s gay. And, uh, he’s in love. Yeah. He’s just really in love with Eddie. I talk a lot about how mean and pissy Eddie is, and he really is mean and pissy, he’s like a fucking rabid raccoon, but he’s also just. He’s really sweet. He acts prickly but he’s just. So sweet. I have to go through that whole asshole dance so he’ll feel like he’s making a heroic sacrifice letting me take care of him when he’s sick, but if I’m sick he turns into like, if the Terminator was a bed nurse? He makes soup from scratch, like holy shit, Campbell’s is fine, but he boils chicken bones! To make broth! And he washes my face and my hair for me, and even though he hates germs and knows the exact window of contagion for every imaginable virus or infection, he’ll kiss my face all over. Cute. Cute, cute.

Yeah, and uh, Richie, he— I’m Richie, this is so stupid, forget I suggested this third-person crap. I just, I’ve got the most amazing friends and I didn’t even know I had them for so long. And I want to talk to them all the time. I want to bug Beverly constantly. And it’s so crazy, it’s just so crazy to me that these people like me and they, uh, I think they love me, and I love them too. And half the time when I sit down to write something I wind up writing about my friends and the stupid shit they do and the stupid shit we used to do as kids, and I’m like, who even wants to read about this? But I want to read about it. And when I let Eddie read the stuff I write he wants to read it too. He’s my harshest critic, he can eviscerate a bad joke with five words and I’ll be, like, bleeding out in the dirt but also going, oh, yeah, he’s right. That would totally be funnier. 

And I guess, uh, Richie. I guess I just want to be happy. And I feel like I’m not allowed to be happy. Like, even after the accident, and all the crazy shit that happened at the reunion, I don’t deserve to be happy. What did I ever do to deserve to be happy? I was just… This horrible piece of shit for twenty years. 

And Eddie, it’s so crazy, it’s like the craziest thing out of all of this, you know he loves me? Like, he kisses me when I’m sick and he, uh, he lets me touch his scars and he folds my laundry for me and he fills all my drafts with red ink, and he tells me that he loves me and I think that he does. And most of the time I believe him but then I’ll think about him sitting in the front row with his arms folded over his chest wound and I’ll think, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve Eddie. I don’t deserve to be happy with Eddie.

And if I tell him that, and I’ve told him that, then he tells me I’m a moron and that I don’t get to decide whether or not I deserve him loving me because he’s the one who gets to decide that, and then usually we. Uh. Well, uh, that’s not important. I’ve already told you way too much about our sex life. 

Okay, well, I’ve implied too much about our sex life.

  
  
  
  


He stops after that, a spring run dry without warning.

“Richie,” says Dr De Luca gently. “You do deserve to be loved.”

Richie shakes his head. His lips press together. His head droops. He has his hands clasped tightly between his widespread knees. 

“Everyone deserves to be loved.”

She waits for him to lift his head. The clock on her desk swishes silently from one second to the next. 

At last Richie lifts his head. His hands, pressed as if in prayer, cover his mouth.

He says, “I’m just so scared that I’m gonna fuck it all up.”

“Why?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Because I fuck everything up. That’s been, uh, one of the few constants in my garbage life.”

Dr De Luca thinks for a time. It gives him time, too, to think and to calm. 

“Everything you’ve told me today,” she says, “shows that you’re a person. You’ve made mistakes. And you know that they were mistakes. Now you’re fixing them. When do you think you’ll deserve love? When you no longer make mistakes? Because Richie, that time will never come.”

He exhales shakily. A hand sweeps up under his glasses, to massage at his eyes. Silently she pushes the box of tissues nearer to the corner of her desk.

“I just feel like… What if I lose them?” Richie joins his hands together over his eyes. The glasses jut up over his forehead. “What if— I mean, what if Eddie wakes up and realizes I’m just a rebound? Like I’m his mid-life crisis?”

“Do you think Eddie would do that?”

Richie shudders under his hands. His glasses slip over his knuckles. 

“No,” he says.

“Because he loves you.”

His breathing is steadying. “Yes.”

Dr De Luca waits. Eventually Richie shudders again and sits back, running his hands down his face, fixing his glasses. His eyes glisten but he doesn’t reach for the tissues.

“I’m glad you came to see me,” says Dr De Luca. “And I think that you’re right, that you’re struggling with anxiety. There are several medications, all perfectly safe, that we could try. There’s other testing I would like to do but that can all wait until you feel comfortable with this current anxiety. Richie. I know how hard it is to reach out for help so far into life. You were very brave to take this step.”

Richie laughs, scrubbing at his jaw. “You know,” he says, smiling half-fond, half-bittersweet, “Eddie said the same thing.”


End file.
